


marcid  - incredibly exhausted

by adlerobsessed



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Let Vivienne be happy Bioware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlerobsessed/pseuds/adlerobsessed
Summary: Vivienne has always been haunted by demons, and now ghosts of those before seem to linger as well. But as Bull leads her to the garden, to the sun, Vivienne finally breathes and for a moment, she does not worry.-Grief and loss.It is strange, the things that bring an Orlesian mage and a qunari together.
Relationships: Bastien de Ghislain/Vivienne, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Senior Enchanter Lydia/Vivienne (Dragon Age), The Iron Bull & Vivienne (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: nice fics





	marcid  - incredibly exhausted

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly my favourite platonic relationship in DAI is Vivienne's and Iron Bull's, so I wanted to explore it a bit more as well as Vivienne's character as well!
> 
> -
> 
> “Our forever was supposed to be longer.” - b.m  
> “The monsters in my head always knew that I would lose you in the end.” - David Jones  
> “I wrapped my heart in steel but you still managed to break it.” - David Jones

It begins with a cough in the spring, just after the black veils and shrouds of Nicoline’s passing had been taken down.

Vivienne does not worry at first. Bastien, no matter how charming and animated, had been twice her age when they met and is now older still. She is not surprised that he finally catches a cold he cannot shake. And so, when she leaves Ghislain after his reassurances that he will be fine alone and returns to Val Royeaux, to Halamshiral, Vivienne does so without a worry in her mind.

Vivienne does not worry.

She does not when Bastien fails to come for the first soiree of the season. Understandable, they’d always set his teeth on edge, with dozens of flighty young ladies flinging themselves after him. With Nicoline’s passing, it was only predictable that he’d do his best to avoid such occasions.

She does not worry when he writes that he’ll spending the summer in Ghislain. Again, it is to be expected. Bastien has always loved seeing the orchards in full bloom and so Vivienne happily visits Montsimmard, eager to test waters that the court and indeed several of her own loyal apprentices had informed her of being tempestuous at best.

Her suspicions are confirmed when Isadora is waiting on the marble steps just outside the Circle. “Darling,” the other mage calls, a dangerous yet genuinely pleased smile gracing her lips. When Vivienne had first arrived at Montsimmard, vultures had immediately swooped in, ready to feed off what they deemed easy pickings. Isadora had instead offered her one hand. Not out of any generosity, but _ambition_ , and it had served them both well.

Thus, Vivienne lets her own smile play across her as she meets the mage, leaning in to brush her lips against the other woman’s cheek. There, she pauses. “Is it true?” Vivienne murmurs as she then moves to kiss the other cheek.

Isadora laughs lightly, taking Vivienne’s hand as they both turn to enter the tower and therefore could tilt her head closer towards Vivienne without anyone deeming it suspicious. “Yes, my dear. Fiona is losing what little support she has here by the minute.”

“She could still take the position of Grand Enchanter,” Vivienne reminds her, offering a nod of acknowledgement to a mage passing by them as they strolled through the entrance hall. “We mustn’t underestimate her support among the factions in the College.”

Isadora glances at her fondly. “You’re always thinking two steps ahead, my dear. Let us focus for the time being on the opportunity at present.”

Vivienne nods in agreement, about to reply when heavy footfalls behind them alert her to the Templars approaching the pair. Even when clad in their helmets and hidden by the quickly growing shadows of night, Vivienne can distinguish the Knight Commander from the rest of the templars simply by the way the others fall a step behind.

Both mages adopt their best smile, one Isadora had spent weeks coaching her to master and now felt more like her natural expression than any true neutral gaze. After all, in Orlais, there exists no neutrality, only masks stronger and more fixed than others.

“Knight Commander Francis,” Vivienne says respectfully, for she is no fool. No mage who wishes to step a foot out of their circle dares to risk a less than amicable relationship with the templars in their circle, and Vivienne has much greater ambitions than simply strolling in a garden.

The templar pauses, boots clanging as he comes to an abrupt halt. Within moments, he removes his helmet and stern eyes meet her own. “Senior Enchanter Vivienne. I trust Val Royeaux was pleasant.” With a single nod, both the other templars and Isadora quickly step away and the man’s gaze turns sharp. “A word.”

Without another word, he turns abruptly on his heel and Vivienne herself has to hurry to catch up, with her counting at least three extra steps before she’s walking by his side. She does not bother with small talk, for Francis is a man of little patience and even less interest in idle chatter. Only once he pulls her into his office, does she begin to speak.

“It was as you feared. The Comte was encouraging the influence of Ghislain’s circle, in the hopes that he’d secure some advantageous arrangement in regards to their crafts. But,” and now Vivienne finally pulls out the perfectly folded slip of paper she’d kept hidden in her sleeve, “the Comte left himself exposed and Montsimmard continues to hold a monopoly on the trading of enchanted items, as well as in other areas.”

Francis shakes his head as he sits down, taking the letter and unfolding it with slight wonder. “You never cease to amaze me, Vivienne. You’ve been a credit to this circle.” _Unlike others_ was unspoken but Vivienne sees the slight narrowing of his eyes and she will not let this advantage slip past.

“I could not possibly speak ill of my betters, sir,” she begins, clasping her hands neatly as Vivienne leans back into her chair.

Francis raises one brow and simply waits. “But?”

“I struggle more and more everyday to ensure the continued support of Montsimmard, when our First Enchanter threatens to forcefully break us away from the very system they so love.” And now, Vivienne waits herself, watching as the templar’s brow knits together in thought. She dares not expose herself any further, for this is a dangerous hand to play even for someone with _her_ experience.

Eventually, Francis simply nods and Vivienne struggles to hide her sigh of relief. “My predecessor thought that Fiona only wanted reform. If he’d have known that she wanted instead to completely destroy, I don’t doubt he’d never have allowed her to ascend to such a position.” He gives her another sharp nod. “The First Enchanter is to attend the College next month. After that, I will make moves to ensure that Montsimmard returns to safe and.. capable hands.”

Vivienne lets a mildly pleased expression paint itself across her features, though a jubilant cry rips through her mind, screaming wildly as she relishes this win. “I shall leave it to you, Knight Commander,” she replies, standing up swiftly. After another solemn nod, she departs, allowing herself to finally breathe as she steps into the empty corridor.

“Senior Enchanter?” A voice calls out and immediately Vivienne snaps back, mask falling easily into place as she turns to face the young apprentice. Vivienne remembers this task, having to run messages all around Ostwick Circle, and she does not envy the poor boy, whose legs are likely near to giving out after running up flights of stairs all day long.

The boy sticks his hand out, revealing a crisply folded letter, stamped with the Ghislain seal. “A message, for you.”

Vivienne does not worry until she recognises Laurent’s, _not_ Bastien’s handwriting, and then her world cracks apart.

-

If there is one thing Vivienne has never missed from her childhood at Ostwick, it is the damn weather that also plagues the Storm Coast. Although Vivienne maintains a barrier around herself at all times, that awful damp still somehow seeps into her bones, scenting her clothes with it.

Therefore, it is rather harsh on the eyes that, in this bleak and desolate landscape, they come across the ragtag mercenary band and their equally as exuberant qunari leader. Vivienne does not miss how incredulous her companions are when he confesses to being a spy, but not her. No, Vivienne has played this game long enough to note how the qunari is already teasing out their backgrounds with seemingly jovial banter.

Vivienne had been sharp enough in their introduction that she sees how the qunari eyes her warily as she leaves her tent in the morning. Good. Let him know how dangerous she is.

“So, Ma’am,” he begins eventually, lacking the easy familiarity that he already adopted with the others. “You’re not with the rebel mages?”

Vivienne merely raises one brow, “Are the Qunari so uninformed that you don’t even know which First Enchanters support the rebellion?”

The Iron Bull shrugs, clearly not bothered by her slight dig. “They’re more concerned by the giant green hole in the sky. But, it was more of a personal question.”

Vivienne frowns, looking up from her boots. “You wish to know my reasons?”

The qunari hesitates before he nods. “I haven’t met many Circle mages and few loyalists as well.”

“Technically, I’m not a loyalist,” Vivienne corrects, finally tying the laces of her left boot. “I never joined a fraternity.”

“So who the hell are you loyal to then?” the qunari says in mild confusement, as if she’s a puzzle he can’t quite put together. But there’s a slight glint in his eyes, one that reveals this exclamation as more jesting than infuriated, more a tease than an interrogation and the fact that he doesn’t try to hide the lacklustre attempt indicates recognition of her skill.

For _that_ , Vivienne rewards him with a dangerous smile. “Whoever earns it.”

-

The servants scatter, parting like waves at her command as Vivienne storms through the corridors before she all but blasts open the doors to Bastien’s suite. “You,” she snarls through gritted teeth as she strides closer to the bed, “foolish, _reckless_ man.”

Bastien, to his credit, merely sighs and pats his son’s hand. “Laurent, a moment, if you would?”

Laurent barely spares a glance before fleeing the room, just like the servants had mere moments ago. Any other day, Vivienne would have been flattered by the response. Now, she crosses her arms, refusing to step any closer to that stubborn, imbecile of a-

“Vivienne,” Bastien says softly, and every other woman would have crumbled from the sound of that voice. Vivienne remains stoic and, if anything, fights the urge to _slap_ him, because how dare he? How _dare_ he do such a thing?

“Vivienne,” her lover repeats, lifting one hand to reach for her, and Vivienne nearly takes a step forward before catching herself, instead remaining by the foot of the bed. Bastien sighs as he sinks back into the pillows, for he knows her like a sailor understands the signs of an oncoming storm, and he will expend no further energy on trying to soothe her brewing temper.

“Two months,” Vivienne begins, folding her arms and drumming long fingers on her sleeves, anything to keep her fury in check. “Two _months_ , and not a word of this.”

Bastien licks his lips tentatively. “I thought it would go away.” Under her sharp glare, he only grins sheepishly where others would wither away, and then he has the impudence to chuckle as he admits, “Clearly, I was wrong.”

Vivienne opens her mouth to admonish him when an onslaught of coughing follows that laughter. Somehow, completely against her will, Vivienne finds herself at his side, slipping onto the bed and smoothing hair that is truly turning silver now, not the mere salt and pepper that he’d maintained for so long.

When Bastien finally pulls away from his handkerchief, Vivienne catches a glimpse of red that he tries to conceal by scrunching it up. She all but rips it out of his hands, his grasp weaker, so much more _weaker,_ and Vivienne can only stare numbly at the splotches of crimson on the fine white cloth.

Vivienne has never been one to let emotions overcome logic.

She has seen sickness take many, for who else but the mages of Montsimmard were capable of curing the epidemics that ravaged Orlais? In Nicoline’s last weeks, _she_ had been the one to sit by her old friend’s side and tell her the terrible but honest truth.

So why is it that Vivienne’s words fail her now as the delicate fabric slips from her fingers? Why, Maker, why had she ever let herself become so entangled, so _sentimental_?Any other man, and she’d have bled him dry, just as Isadora had told her to, and moved on.

Instead, Vivienne can feel her heart hammering in her chest, and a helplessness she hasn’t felt since she was a child at Ostwick, forgotten and irrelevant. This was not any other man, this was _Bastien_ so Vivienne remains frozen. Gentle fingers wrap around her wrist, and Vivienne realises her hand is actually trembling.

“Darling,” Bastien attempts, but his voice, normally so luxurious as if crafted from silk, is still raw from his fit and Vivienne flinches, as if she’s been struck, and suddenly the fury returns.

“You will rest,” she tells him, leaving no room for questions, “and I will return to Montsimmard. We will fix whatever this is.”

Bastien does not reply, though his brow furrows, and Vivienne can barely remember a time she’s seen him so displeased. Still, he remains silent, instead pulling her hand to his lips before letting his fingers trace the dips and ridges of her knuckles. Bastien had always marvelled at the calluses left from Vivienne’s years spent training as a Knight Enchanter, and he seemingly takes comfort from such an action so Vivienne waits, albeit impatiently.

Bastien’s eyes meet hers, and there’s a sudden edge to his gaze, as if this may be the lasttime he ever sees her. He swallows, clearly deciding upon something before shaking his head. “No.”

It is only practice, sheer _will_ , that stops Vivienne from covering her fingers, _his as well_ , in ice. Instead, the air around them chills and yet, Bastien continues to hold his ground, not even wincing at the sudden drop in temperature. “Don’t be stubbor-”

“I am not,” he cut in. “I am being reasonable. Laurent will take over my official duties and you will return to court. Celene is fickle, you canno-”

Vivienne silences him by roughly kissing him, lips claiming his own as if she fears he’ll disappear if she doesn’t. Perhaps she does. A note of surprise escapes Bastien but he soon wraps one arm around her waist, tucking her more firmly into his side.

When Vivienne breaks away, her throat feels tight as she cups Bastien’s face and rests her own forehead against his. “I will _not_ leave you,” she says determinedly, struggling to keep down the note of panic that threatens to consume her voice, because hysteria would simply not _do_. “Not ever."

“The game is not kind to those who do not prune a wilting flower,” Bastien weakly reminds her, even though he leans into her touch. His eyes soften as Bastien presses one kiss into her wrist, before gently saying, “no matter how attached the gardener is to it.”

Vivienne shakes her head, moving so she can rearrange the sheets around him. “Rest. I am not going anywhere, my love.”

-

It is strange, how the Iron Bull so easily offers her respect. Sera is clearly disgusted by her associations with the nobility, and Blackwall is hardly more complimentary. Solas makes little effort to understand her, only belittling her for wanting to restore a system, to which they have no proper alternative to, and Dorian occasionally looks at her like he _pities_ her for being born in the South rather than in a land of tyrants.

Therefore, it is hardly unusual for Vivienne to still occasionally ponder over this anomaly as she watches the qunari clean his weapon. She has never been one to jump to a conclusion too quickly, for things could quickly change and Vivienne would rather swallow her pride than risk being at a disadvantage.

Still, she cannot help but laugh as Bull shakes his legs wildly around after accidentally getting his trousers wet. “Darling, you needn’t shake like a wet dog, just let the sun dry them out,” Vivienne calls as he comes to join her at the camp.

“That was something I had to get used to in Orlais,” Bull easily replies, sitting down just opposite her so he can pull both waterlogged boots off, “practically always fucking arrid somehow unlike Seheron.”

“You spent much time there?” Vivienne asks lightly, shifting slightly so she is facing him more directly.

“Mm. Poured like a ladies’ knickers were down,” Iron Bull replies gruffly, eyes focusing on something in the distance.

“ _Iron Bull_.” Vivienne is well aware of how much disapproval she can convey in so few words, remembering the apprentices who cowered under gaze when they continued to fail. Still, it brings her some satisfaction to see a fully armoured qunari shrinking back into himself after her reprimand.

“I-uh- sorry, Ma’am,” Bull amends hastily, head lowering slightly in a chagrined manner. It is amusing, how such a large warrior turns into a chastised schoolchild with barely a slap on the wrist.

“You’re not from Orlais yourself, are you, Ma’am?” Bull eventually says, likely once he has assessed how much more of a bruised ego he can withstand. It was an obvious question, any fool who was neither blind nor deaf could see that, and so Vivienne raises one unimpressed brow. Bull folds his arms, pondering something before saying, “Wycombe?”

It is two decades of practice that keeps Vivienne’s mask on her face, but the fact that her response is not immediate tells Bull everything he needs to know. A jubilant grin rips across his face as he leans back smugly, throwing his hand up into a gesture. “I’m good with accents,” Bull lightly boasts, clearly answering the question Vivienne would not dare ask, what small crack she has yet to cover.

“I’ve lost my accent entirely.” An overstatement perhaps. Vivienne had spent months forcing herself to unlearn the consonants and vowels that seemed to scrape and scratch at the back of her throat, but she has never made any effort to adopt the lilted patterns of Orlais. Vivienne knows any such attempts would have only earned her ridicule.

Bull shrugs. “You place more stress on the second syllable than Orlesians do when speaking. You definitely weren’t born in Kirkwall, and you practically shuddered at Varric’s mention of Starkhaven. Wycombe is also an attractive city for merchants.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrow. “And what does such a feature have to do with my heritage?”

“You’re Rivaini,” Bull continues, obviously trying to gauge some reaction from her. ”Most of them who stray so far are merchants.”

Vivienne remains silent for so long that by the time she finally speaks, Bull is clearly unnerved, tilting towards her so she remains _fully_ out of his blindspot. “I have spent over twenty years in Orlais.” She pauses, before deciding that this strange, strange man has earned her honesty. “No one has ever read me as thoroughly as you have done.”

“In all fairness, ma’am, most Orlesians couldn’t tell the difference between a Fereldan and a Free Marcher,” Bull tries weakly. He’d always claimed he was good with people, and thus he rushes to appease her, clearly trying to lessen the impact of his comment.

“Possibly because they are both so utterly dreary,” Vivienne all but sighs as she uncrosses her legs, leaning in closer. She cocks her head to the side, examining all her options. Once, she’d been beaten so badly on the training field that she could not walk for a week. Her next match, Vivienne had crushed her opponent so soundly that the Templar had refused to spar with her ever again.

Vivienne has never been one to shy away from an unpleasant truth, if it could give her a possible advantage and so she sets on her course as she stands up, Bull quickly following her. “Tell me then, Bull. What else can you discern about me?”

“I’m guessing that I’m not allowed to dream about the fun stuff, Ma’am?” There’s no malevolence in the joke, only that same teasing smile that Vivienne has grown to both expect and enjoy.

Because of that, when she freezes the ground beneath him, sending him sprawling onto his front, Vivienne makes sure it’s straight onto a mound of sand that leaves him spitting granules rather than teeth. Maker knows he didn’t need another supposedly dashing physical impairment.

-

Vivienne is nineteen, a woman grown. She has long moved past the endless nights spent crying silently into her pillow, yearning for a mother’s touch she couldn’t remember, or a father’s love that had slipped from her memory. But in this moment, Lydia’s hand grasping her own, Vivienne comes the closest to tears that she has done in nearly a decade.

“You will write,” she insists, because Vivienne would never allow herself to beg, never allow herself to be so strongly under one’s power.

Lydia smiles gently, clutching her hands tightly as they stand in the vestibule leading to the outside world, to Vivienne’s future. “Every week.”

There is more to be said, of the bond that will be forever changed now, the memories of two young girls holding hands and dancing through stone halls that must simply become echoes of a childhood Vivienne knows she will have to forgo ever mentioning.

But Vivienne cannot say all this without fearing that Lydia’s soft but bittersweet beam will convince her to stay, to take her hand and remain in these bleak halls yet warmed and filled with Lydia’s kindness.

Instead, she merely squeezes her friend’s hand one last time and then forces herself to let go.

By the time Vivienne steps out into the open air, into the world, she has banished the last of her tears. Orlais will have no need of them, and so she casts them to the wind.

-

When the Iron Bull comes to her balcony, wordless and exhausted after the failed mission on the Storm Coast, Vivienne accepts him without a single hesitation.

Following their arrival at Skyhold, she’d struggled to seat him but after two quarrels with a travelling merchant from Val Royeaux, three chairs that were not even close to the precise measurements she’d provided and one that was adequate in size but a shade too light of lilac, Vivienne finally secured an armchair that was suitable for her surroundings as well accommodating for a qunari warrior.

At first, Bull sits there listlessly, aimlessly, and Vivienne is reminded of that first moment after the collapse of the Circles, where her purpose, her duty seemed to collapse and be torn asunder. As little as she cares for the Qun, she understands what it is to be ripped away from what feels like the bedrock of one’s existence.

And so, she picks up two ledgers, depositing them onto Bull’s lap without an explanation. Instead, she settles back into her chair, lifting her own leather bound one. “Check through the lists starting on page seventeen of that top ledger against the ones in the second one, not far from the back I believe.”

“Anything in particular, Ma’am?” Bull asks, not even complaining as he immediately opens the top one, balancing it on the arm of his chair so he can have the other on his lap.

“Check that the correct number of supplies have been arranged for. Winter is approaching and I must ensure that Montsimmard is fully ready.”

“That’s you, ma’am. Ready for anything,” Bull told her morosely as he began to scan the pages. And that, _that_ makes Vivienne do something she rarely does.

Gracefully sliding off her own seat, Vivienne comes to stand just by Bull and places one hand on the back of the armchair, stabilising her as she lifts his chin with the other. “Are you alright, my dear?” Vivienne asks softly, gently even by her standards.

“Loss,” Bull says wisely. “It’s a fucker.”

“It’s an agony of its own,” Vivienne agrees as she lets her hand drop away, no matter how crudely expressed, but she does not speak further as she goes to sit down again.

She has allowed Bull peeks behind the mask, but she will never allow him to see through it. She cannot risk it, for even among friends, Vivienne must play the game.As a younger woman, she used to weep. Now, she merely feels weary, hollow as she wishes she could ask for Bull’s help. “But, the world moves on. Regardless of whether it is better or not.” The words are as revealing as she can permit. Vivienne hopes it is consoling enough.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Bull asks after several moments of silence, repeating her earlier question and the words are so quietly murmured that they could’ve been mistaken for the whispers of the wind as they tease her curtains. Vivienne hates how thankful she feels for the discretion, hates how she actually considers telling him the awful truth that threatens to break her very existence.

So far, her research had fallen short. Vivienne, always a perfectionist, had simply never considered that failure could have been a possibility. And yet here she is, empty handed with growing alarm.

Bastien has been in her life more than he has not. Vivienne has often dismissed the gaudy and foolish notion that love completes you as a person, but now, she once again feels the ache for that familiar smile, that voice, and again imagines her life without it.

Deep down, she’s always known she would lose him and not the other way round. Somehow, Vivienne had deceived herself well enough that she believed a woman of iron would survive such a loss, that the memories of their life together would be enough. It is a lie that fails to satisfy her, just like Ostwick had, just like the meagre role of Junior, then Senior Enchanter had, and like all things, Vivienne craves _more_.

But she cannot say this, so Vivienne simply shrugs. “I am simply in a state of melancholy after seeing Varric’s latest travesty of a shirt. It never ceases to amaze me that he spends as much money as he does on so little fabric.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

Vivienne’s nose crinkles as she pictures the offending garment again. “You’re a qunari, darling. Is that supposed to shock me?”

-

It is a strange thing, to trust a Templar more than many of fellow mages. If Vivienne had ever considered such a possibility after her harrowing, especially after _her_ harrowing, she would have laughed.

But there is a special bond that forms between those who train on the battlefield together, learning, bruising, beating each other all the while offering another hand back up again and so Vivienne does not care one whit that she lets her neutral mask slip as she smashes the hilt of her sword into Henri’s chin, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Vivienne does not allow him one single moment of respite, immediately driving her blade in the direction of his head, only to fade step momentarily to avoid the kick that would have led to her being knocked to the ground. She does not let that disrupt her focus for even a moment, dodging Henri’s dispel and instead appearing just behind him.

A blast to the back, quick enough that Henri does not have time to turn and shield himself, means the match ends in her favour. Vivienne finds little satisfaction in it.

“Something on your mind?” Henri asks, after she helps him sit up again, managing a remarkably cheery smile for one who’d been brutalised again and again all morning.

Vivienne offers no reply, merely scowling as she places the hilt of her blade down, wrist aching from hours spent duelling. Henri remains silent for a moment, clearly judging her temperament before he speaks. “Vivienne, I overheard the other enchanters. This-“

“And what possible insight could you afford me on this matter?” Vivienne snaps, not caring how waspish it comes out. This man has seen her ugly nature numerous times on the battlefield and has yet to turn away. “Have you ever studied such things?

Henri says nothing, merely taking her hand. Vivienne remembers the first time she’d beaten him. Where other templars had immediately brutalised or punished their opponents, Henri had only laughed and asked her to show him the final riposte again. And so, she lets her glare soften as he massages the muscles Henri knows to be sore after hours of training.

“This loss will already hurt you,” he tells her, eyes full of sorrow for once as he reminds Vivienne of an ugly truth she has wilfully ignored for months. “But it’ll be worse if you have to sit by his side as you lose him.”

-

Vivienne can barely remember a time where her heart was as light as it is now when they arrive at the Winter Palace. Perhaps only the Wintersend ball, seemingly centuries ago, when Vivienne was young and green and unaware of what trials were to come still.

True, Bastien remains away in Ghislain, but for the first time in years, there is _hope_ and Vivienne can only just keep a giddy smile off her face as she goes to find Bull.

“Darling, you cannot hide out here all evening,” she calls, fully aware of how her own voice rings throughout the corridor drawing the attention of both courtiers and servants alike, almost tripping over themselves as they rush to greet her.

Vivienne ignores them all, striding gracefully over to Bull hiding sheepishly in a corner, a rather bizarre state for a qunari warrior, though less so for a spy. Vivienne doesn’t doubt many nobles have foolishly let slip secrets they assumed the ox wouldn’t undertstand. As she comes to a stop, Vivienne raises one unimpressed brow. “Or am I to be left unaccompanied the entire ball?”

Bull smiles, tilting his head in acknowledgment. “I swear, I was just coming, Ma’am. I, was uh-“

“-patiently waiting for our dear lord Dorian, were you?” Vivienne cuts in, delighting the slight spark of shock that shoots through his eyes. She laughs, patting his arm. “Come now, darling. You didn’t think such things would escape me?”

Bull shrugs, voice softening for a moment in a way that makes Vivienne almost surprised. “He wanted some space, needed to sort his head out,” he mentions lightly, though Vivienne sees how his eyes dart past, out the window to where the aforementioned man stood.

“And what about you, darling?” Vivienne asks, gently tweaking the collar of his uniform. A rather garish colour, once Vivienne would not have chosen even when put to the sword. “You mustn’t always neglect yourself so.”

“Hey, you seem perfectly capable of sorting my head out, ma’am. Why would I bother trying myself?”

Vivienne laughs openly, letting genuine amusement actually colour the sound for the first time that evening, rather than continue to utilise the garish laugh Vivienne had been required to adopt whenever some foolish marquis had continued to pester her. Just as she finally quietens, a servant runs up, gaze already tilted downward as she murmurs,“For you, my lady.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Vivienne tells the servant kindly, plucking the outstretched note out of her hands. She notices the slanted writing on the paper and immediately her heart races. It would not do to rip the envelope open, the way a child does gleefully to presents at Satinalia, but Vivienne barely restrains herself from tearing the seal open.

She sharply pulls the sides of the letter apart, revealing its contents and Vivienne finds herself grinding her teeth as she reads the captain’s report. Over half his company dead and the rest too seriously wounded to move much less hunt a _wyvern_. It is rash, it is impulsive, but Vivienne crumples the letter and lets a blast of flame spurt from her palm, scorching the paper until it collapses into a pile of ash that she lets sift through her fingers.

Vivienne barely notices Bull flinching at the sudden sparks from her hands, but she doesn’t miss the way he steps slightly to her left, puffing his chest until he blocks most of the light, most of _them_ away from her. “Ma’am,” he quietly says, and this is no longer a casual exchange between comrades, this is a deputy asking his commander for his next set of orders and Vivienne marvels at how easily Bull can shift between the two personas. “Do you need a moment?”

Vivienne’s jaw begins to ache as she only grits her teeth tighter, relishing how the aching pain distracts her momentarily from how suddenly filled with rage she is. Not the controlled, precisely aimed ferocity that she had once advised Elanna to use, but wild, unbridled fury at what is yet another complication in an already delicate issue.

It is the strength of such emotions that scares Vivienne most and she finds herself returning to the most basic methods of calming that unchecked and dangerous temper she’d thought she had quelled all those years ago.

“Fine, darling,” she states cooly, not even looking at him as she brushes past. “I believe we should return to the Inquisitor. No doubt, she has finally made some discoveries we should investigate.”

-

“Give this foolish quest up,” Isadora instructs coldly as she suddenly appears at Vivienne’s desk, arms folded. When she moves to speak, Isadora hold one hand up, immediately silencing her. “Vivienne. Don’t.”

She does not speak for some time, likely hoping to make her squirm uncomfortably, and if Vivienne was any younger, still that frightened, cowering girl of Ostwick afraid of her own shadow, she might have done.

“In all the time I have known you, you have never acted so recklessly,” Isadora begins with a waspish tone, practically spitting out words.“Once, I thought you endured all the chaos after the Wintersend Ball simply for an advantage.”

The disappointed note in her voice suddenly turns sharp, daggered almost as Isadora’s eyes narrow. “Now, I fear it was because of a far more baser sentiment, one that is clearly affecting your judgement.”

Vivienne prickles at the implied insult, of _sentimentality_ in a game where it was better to be alone, but she holds her tongue. Pride was just as dangerous as a knife, even more so to a mage.

“You always knew he would die first,” Isadora finally says, words heavy.

Vivienne takes a moment before she admits openly, “I thought we would have longer.”

“You don’t have longer,” Isadora cuts in, eyes as harsh and sharp as a shard of ice, and infinitely more chilling. "And if you’re not careful, you’ll have even less time. Celene favours that accursed apostate more and more each and every time you abandon the court.”

“I won’t lose him,” Vivienne insists stubbornly, and she hates how pathetic it makes her seem, as childish as when she petulantly insisted on waiting on the steps of Ostwick Circle for travellers from Wycombe that never cared enough to visit.

The ice of Isadora’s gaze melts slightly and she tentatively places a gentle hand on Vivienne’s shoulder, and that gesture makes her almost nauseous, to be _pitied_ when she knows she will eventually succeed. “You are going to,” Isadora warns, because even when kind, she refuses to behave foolishly.

“Make sure you don’t lose yourself as well.”

-

If there is one thing Vivienne is glad of, it is how Bull does not ask her about Bastien. The deceptions spies create are not so dissimilar from the game she plays, and thus he must know that her silence indicates a vulnerability that she is not keen to expose. Vivienne had already berated herself over her sentimental display with Elanna earlier and she wishes for no repetition.

It is a chink in her armour, one she will cover in time, but for now the gaping wound must breathe. Unfortunately, it remains on display, and Vivienne has already had to deal with Dorian’s probing remarks and Cassandra’s blustering attempts to console her. Although she had appreciated the concern, Vivienne has long been a woman of iron and she could not respond to such emotional displays nor did she feel an urge to break down in floods of tears as was seemingly expected of her.

No, what Vivienne feels is exhaustion, the kind one felt after struggling for hours in the water only to slip under the waters regardless. An ache in her bones that neither worsens nor eases, only lingering, heavy and smothering to the point that Vivienne’s nights remained restless and long as she struggled to breathe much less sleep.

In the dark, Bastien’s absence is felt all the more keenly. No handwritten letters lie on her desk anymore, just close enough to the edge that Vivienne could see them as she fell asleep.

She keeps Bastien’s old lute by the balcony rather than in her own room, for fear that if she is left alone, out of sight, she’ll obliterate it. Even remnants of Bastien’s soothing voice reminding her that, “it was my only true love, well,” and a rueful smile breaking out before he’d amended the statement with, “before I met you,” did nothing to ease the sudden void she felt when Vivienne looked on it.

Bull’s hum of appreciation as he takes a sip of his tea draws her out of her reverie and Vivienne notices how she has failed to place her cup back exactly on the saucer. With a slight tut, she shifts it slightly and then focuses on once again sitting upright. “Is it to your satisfaction, darling?”

Bull nods vigorously. “It’s great, ma’am. Tastes just like the kind my tamassran made.”

Vivienne lets a triumphant smile grace her lips. It had not been easy, tracking down the ingredients Bull had offhandedly mentioned one evening to her, but Vivienne has rarely let mere difficultly get in her way.

Occasionally though, rarities do happen. Bastien’s last smile dying on his lips comes to mind, and Vivienne lets out a deep exhale.

Bull takes another sip and sighs in contentment. Vivienne tries to focus on that enjoyment and lets it warm that cold ache, the heaviness in her chest.

-

The first thing that strikes Vivienne as she and the rest of the Mages enter Montsimmard is the quiet. The circle, always the centre of research, of politics, of life, was filled with constant hubbub and chatter. These desolate halls did nothing to assuage Vivienne’s growing trepidation, and she can almost _feel_ the other mages fidgeting behind her.

“Be on your guard,” she instructs them, hilt and staff already drawn. “We do not know whether the malcontents have fled or not.”

She does not try to reassure them that all is well.

There was no missing the twisted and burnt bodies that lay in the vestibule, the templars caught unaware by their charges.

It had been foolish, to assume her tower was safe from such chaos. She takes another step and Vivienne hears the snap of something under her foot, making her immediately lurch back. Fingerbones emerge from under the shadow of her heel and Vivienne hears the violent sound of one of the mages behind her turning to retch. Soon, others go to join him and Vivienne cannot blame them.

A nausea of her own erupts then as she remembers Isadora _works_ in this part of the library and suddenly her heart leaps into her throat. Vivienne allows herself one more moment to steel herself before she continues on, careful to step over the crumbling remains of the archivist.

The first desk she spies behind a singed shelf is empty, the next upturned and partially obliterated. The third, then the fourth, and indeed all the rest are similarly damaged, destroyed as if some wild thing had ripped through, scrabbling and shredding to pieces anything it passed by in its blind fury.

Vivienne wouldn’t have been surprised to discover if one of the malcontents had turned into such a wild thing themselves.

And then she sees black hair fanned out in a pool of red and for a moment, Vivienne can’t think, can’t comprehend what she is seeing as she numbly stares at the fallen corpse before she suddenly lurches towards her friend, sinking to her knees.

Blood stains her hands, her robes, and Vivienne feels such rage that in this moment she fears becoming a wild thing _herself_. A hoarse, uncontrolled noise threatens to escape her but instead Vivienne only grips her friend tighter to her, banishing each and every voice that had threatened to consume her mere moments ago.

It is only when she can trust herself to speak that Vivienne looks up, sees the anxious faces of those that remained staring back at her. “Send the word out,” she states evenly, far too calmly for one holding the fallen body of a friend. “Montsimmard has not fallen. Any mage who does not wish to fall victim to this chaos may seek refuge here.”

“What about those who did this?” Adrian asks gingerly, twisting his hands nervously. “Should we go after them?”

“How could we not?” Gerion all but yells, his normally charming veneer absent as he practically snarls, eyes flashing and wild “They’ve murdered our brothers and sisters!”

“No,” Vivienne interrupts and the pair immediately fall silent, always pliant as soon as the steel emerged from the silk. “We must first secure this place. Search for any survivors then we must ensure that the tower is guarded.”

Vivienne finds herself looking down at her friend’s blank expression, caught by the sudden urge to fix Isadora’s mussed hair. It had been her who had taught Vivienne the power of one’s appearance, and it seems _cruel_ for such a thing to be stripped from Isadora in her last moments.“We will have justice,” Vivienne murmurs more to herself than anyone else.

She remembers that conversation in the library, Isadora’s warning eyes as she’d brushed soft fingers past Vivienne’s shoulder. It is the last lesson she will ever be offered and so Vivienne once again meets the mages, _her_ mages’ eyes. “We mustn’t lose ourselves in the process.”

-

Summer comes to Skyhold and Vivienne stands on her balcony, comparing swatches of fabric against Bull’s chest.

To his credit, Bull remains largely still, even as she occasionally pins makeshift designs together. _Especially_ , when sharp pins are within her reach, amusingly. “So this will really get me all the ladies then, Ma’am?” he teases, eyebrows going up suggestively, forever toeing that unspoken line that existed between them.

“Of course, darling, if you should wish so,” Vivienne replies easily, though she frowns slightly. She pauses, taking a moment to compare two swatches of emerald green before she queries, “Must I have a word with our pride of Tevinter?”

“Oh, no! No, uh, Dorian is.. he’s great,” Bull finishes lamely, though not without almost sighing as he stopped speaking, going the closest to _dreamy_ that Vivienne has ever seen.

There is a softness in his eyes when he speaks of Dorian, and Vivienne wonders for a moment whether she looked like that as she spoke of Bastien, before she brushes away the absurd idea. She instead focuses on how the swatch in her left hand seems to make Bull’s skin almost ghoulish in shade and immediately replaces it with another from the assortment Vivienne had prepared for today.

Only once she is satisfied that the appropriate tones of emerald have been chosen does Vivienne allow Bull to escort her to Skyhold’s garden. Josephine, the utter dear that she is, had requested Vivienne’s help and naturally, she’d happily obliged, however that does not mean she would allow herself to spend all her waking hours in that abominable, dimly lit solar.

No, instead, they will meet just after noon and sit under the sun that had warmed Vivienne’s face many a time as she had revelled in the summer at Ghislain, Bastien’s eyes as soft as the glimmer of daylight.

“Will you go find your Tevinter paramour then, darling?” Vivienne questions as they make their way down the staircase leading to the Great Hall.

“Depends, Ma’am,” Bull answers, a lopsided grin quickly smearing itself across his face. “It’s far more amusing to watch him come find me, tail between his legs.”

“Cruelty is unlike you, Bull, darling,” Vivienne jests lightly, stepping gracefully off the last cobbled step.

“He rather enjoys it, Ma’am,” Bull replies, eyes twinkling with slight mirth. It’s a natural wit, no matter how crude, that rivals even that of Isadora’s. There’s a hint of Bastien as Bull laughs, a taste of Lydia’s beam as he continues to grin. Vivienne does not miss the gentleness of his gaze as he opens the door for her, just as Henri had done countless times. 

Vivienne has always been haunted by demons, and now ghosts of those before seem to linger as well. But as Bull leads her to the garden, to the _sun_ , Vivienne finally _breathes_ and for a moment, she does not worry. There is still much to come, yes, obstacles to defeat. But, for the time being, she is not alone and the familiarity of her companions, her allies, her _friends_ , seems to make the gaping hole in her chest just a little bit smaller.

Vivienne has lost much. Here, she realises she has gained much as well.


End file.
